McMURDO
was a man who made his mark quickly. Wherever he was the folk around
soon knew it. Within a week he had be­come infinitely the most
important person at Shafter's. There were ten or a dozen boarders
there; but they were honest foremen or common­place clerks from
the stores, of a very different caliber from the young Irishman. Of
an evening when they gathered together his joke was always the
readiest, his conversation the brightest, and his song the best. He
was a born boon compan­ion, with a magnetism which drew good
humor from all around him.

And
yet he showed again and again, as he had shown in the railway
carriage, a capacity for sudden, fierce anger, which compelled the
re­spect and even the fear of those who met him.

For
the law, too, and all who were connected with it, he exhibited a
bitter contempt which de­lighted some and alarmed others of his
fellow boarders.

From
the first he made it evident, by his open admiration, that the
daughter of the house had won his heart from the instant that he had
set eyes upon her beauty and her grace. He was no backward suitor. On
the second day he told her that he loved her, and from then onward he
repeated the same story with an absolute dis­regard of what she
might say to discourage him.

"Someone
else?" he would cry. "Well, the worse luck for someone
else! Let him look out for himself! Am I to lose my life's chance and
all my heart's desire for someone else? You can keep on saying no,
Ettie: the day will come when you will say yes, and I'm young enough
to wait."

He
was a dangerous suitor, with his glib Irish tongue, and his pretty,
coaxing ways. There was about him also that glamour of experience and
of mystery which attracts a woman's interest, and finally her love.
He could talk of the sweet valleys of County Monaghan from which he
came, of the lovely, distant island, the low hills and green meadows
of which seemed the more beautiful when imagination viewed them from
this place of grime and snow.

Then
he was versed in the life of the cities of the North, of Detroit, and
the lumber camps of Michigan, and finally of Chicago, where he had
worked in a planing mill. And afterward came the hint of romance, the
feeling that strange things had happened to him in that great city,
so strange and so intimate that they might not be spoken of. He spoke
wistfully of a sudden leaving, a breaking of old ties, a flight into
a strange world, ending in this dreary valley, and Ettie listened,
her dark eyes gleaming with pity and with sympathy, — those two
qualities which may turn so rapidly and so naturally to love.

McMurdo
had obtained a temporary job as bookkeeper; for he was a well
educated man. This kept him out most of the day, and he had not found
occasion yet to report himself to the head of the lodge of the
Eminent Order of Free­men. He was reminded of his omission,
how­ever, by a visit one evening from Mike Scanlan, the fellow
member whom he had met in the train. Scanlan, a small, sharp-faced,
nervous, black-eyed man, seemed glad to see him once more. After a
glass or two of whiskey he broached the object of his visit.

"Say,
McMurdo," said he, "I remembered your address; so I made
bold to call. I'm surprised that you've not reported to the
Bodymaster. Why haven't you seen Boss McGinty yet?"

"Well,
I had to find a job. I have been busy."

"You
must find time for him if you have none for anything else. Good Lord,
Man! you're a fool not to have been down to the Union House and
registered your name the first morning after you came here! If you
run against him — well, you mustn't, that's all!"

McMurdo
showed mild surprise. "I've been a member of lodge for over two
years, Scanlan, but I never heard that duties were so pressing as all
that."

"Maybe
not in Chicago."

"Well,
it's the same society here."

"Is
it?"

Scanlan
looked at him long and fixedly. There was something sinister in his
eyes.

"Isn't
it?"

"You'll
tell me that in a month's time. I hear you had a talk with the
patrolmen after I left the train."

"How
did you know that?"

"Oh,
it got about — things do get about for good and for bad in this
district."

"Well,
yes. I told the hounds what I thought of them."

"By
the Lord, you'll be a man after McGinty's heart!"

"What,
does he hate the police too?"

Scanlan
burst out laughing. "You go and see him, my lad," said he
as he took his leave. "It's not the police but you that he'll
hate if you don't! Now, take a friend's advice and go at once!"

It
chanced that on the same evening McMurdo had another more pressing
interview which urged him in the same direction. It may have been
that his attentions to Ettie had been more evi­dent than before,
or that they had gradually ob­truded themselves into the slow
mind of his good German host; but, whatever the cause, the
board­ing-house keeper beckoned the young man into his private
room and started on the subject with­out any circumlocution.

"It
seems to me, Mister," said he, "that you are gettin' set on
my Ettie. Ain't that so, or am I wrong?"

"Yes,
that is so," the young man answered.

"Vell,
I want to tell you right now that it ain't no manner of use. There's
someone slipped in afore you."

"She
told me so."

"Vell,
you can Jay that she told you truth. But did she tell you who it
vas?"

"No,
I asked her; but she wouldn't tell."

"I
dare say not, the leetle baggage! Perhaps she did not vish to
frighten you avay." 'Frighten!" McMurdo was on fire in a
moment.

"Ah,
yes, my friend! You need not be ashamed to be frightened of him. It
is Teddy Baldwin."

"And
who the devil is he?"

"He
is a boss of Scowrers."

"Scowrers!
I've heard of them before. It's Scowrers here and Scowrers there, and
always in a whisper! What are you all afraid of? Who are the
Scowrers?"

The
boarding-house keeper instinctively sank his voice, as everyone did
who talked about that terrible society. "The Scowrers,"
said he, "are the Eminent Order of Freemen!"

The
young man stared. "Why, I am a mem­ber of that order
myself."

"You!
I would never have had you in my house if I had known it — not if
you were to pay me a hundred dollar a week."

"What's
wrong with the order? It's for char­ity and good fellowship. The
rules say so."

"Prove
it! Are there not fifty murders to prove it? Vat about Milman and Van
Shorst, and the Nicholson family, and old Mr. Hyam, and little Billy
James, and the others? Prove it! Is there a man or a voman in this
valley vhat does not know it?"

"See
here!" said McMurdo earnestly. "I want you to take back
what you've said, or else make it good. One or the other you must do
before I quit this room. Put yourself in my place. Here am I, a
stranger in the town. I belong to a so­ciety that I know only as
an innocent one. You'll find it through the length and breadth of the
States; but always as an innocent one. Now, when I am counting upon
joining it here, you tell me that it is the same as a murder society
called the Scowrers. I guess you owe me either an apol­ogy or
else an explanation, Mr. Shafter."

"I
can but tell you vhat the whole vorld knows, Mister. The bosses of
the one are the bosses of the other. If you offend the one, it is the
other vhat vill strike you. We have proved it too often."

"That's
just gossip — I want proof!" said Mc­Murdo.

"If
you live here long you vill get your proof. But I forget that you are
yourself one of them. You vill soon be as bad as the rest. But you
vill find other lodgings, Mister. I cannot have you here. Is it not
bad enough that one of these peo­ple come courting my Ettie, and
that I dare not turn him down, but that I should have another for my
boarder? Yes, indeed, you shall not sleep here after tonight!"

McMurdo
found himself under sentence of banishment both from his comfortable
quarters and from the girl whom he loved. He found her alone in the
sitting room that same evening, and he poured his troubles into her
ear.

"Sure,
your father is after giving me notice," he said. "It's
little I would care if it was just my room, but indeed, Ettie, though
it's only a week that I've known you, you are the very breath of life
to me, and I can't live without you!"

"Oh,
hush, Mr. McMurdo, don't speak so!" said the girl. "I have
told you, have I not, that you are too late? There is another, and if
I have not promised to marry him at once, at least I can promise no
one else."

"Suppose
I had been first, Ettie, would I have had a chance?"

The
girl sank her face into her hands. "I wish to Heaven that you
had been first!" she sobbed.

McMurdo
was down on his knees before her in an instant. "For God's sake,
Ettie, let it stand at that!" he cried. "Will you ruin your
life and my own for the sake of this promise? Follow your heart,
acushla! 'Tis a safer guide than any promise before you knew what it
was that you were saying."

He
had seized Ettie's white hand between his own strong brown ones.

"Say
that you will be mine, and we will face it out together!"

"Not
here?"

"Yes,
here."

"No,
no, Jack!" His arms were round her now. "It could not be
here. Could you take me away?"

A
struggle passed for a moment over McMur­do's face; but it ended
by setting like granite. "No, here," he said. "I'll
hold you against the world, Ettie, right here where we are!"

"Why
should we not leave together?"

"No,
Ettie, I can't leave here."

"But
why?"

"I'd
never hold my head up again if I felt that I had been driven out.
Besides, what is there to be afraid of? Are we not free folk in a
free country. If you love me, and I you, who will dare to come
between?"

"You
don't know, Jack. You've been here too short a time. You don't know
this Baldwin. You don't know McGinty and his Scowrers."

"No,
I don't know them, and I don't fear them, and I don't believe in
them!" said McMur­do. "I've lived among rough men, my
darling, and instead of fearing them it has always ended that they
have feared me — always, Ettie. It's mad on the face of it! If
these men, as your father says, have done crime after crime in the
valley, and if everyone knows them by name, how comes it that none
are brought to justice? You answer me that, Ettie!"

"Because
no witness dares to appear against them. He would not live a month if
he did. Also because they have always their own men to swear that the
accused one was far from the scene of the crime. But surely, Jack,
you must, have read all this. I had understood that every paper in
the United States was writing about it."

"Well,
I have read something, it is true; but I had thought it was a story.
Maybe these men have some reason in what they do. Maybe they are
wronged and have no other way to help them­selves."

"Oh,
Jack, don't let me hear you speak so! That is how he speaks — the
other one!"

"Baldwin
— he speaks like that, does he?"

"And
that is why I loathe him so. Oh, Jack, how I can tell you the truth?
I loathe him with all my heart; but I fear him also. I fear him for
myself; but above all I fear him for Father. I know that some great
sorrow would come upon us if I dared to say what I really felt. That
is why I have put him off with half-promises. It was in real truth
our only hope. But if you would fly with me, Jack, we could take
Father with us and live forever far from the power of these wicked
men."

Again
there was the struggle upon McMurdo's face, and again it set like
granite. "No harm shall come to you, Ettie — nor to your
father either. As to wicked men, I expect you may find that I am as
bad as the worst of them before we're through."

"No,
no, Jack! I would trust you anywhere."

McMurdo
laughed bitterly. "Good Lord! how little you know of me! Your
innocent soul, my darling, could not even guess what is passing in
mine. But, hullo, who's the visitor?"

The
door had opened suddenly, and a young fellow came swaggering in with
the air of one who is the master. He was a handsome, dashing young
man of about the same age and build as McMurdo himself. Under his
broad-brimmed black felt hat, which he had not troubled to re­move,
a handsome face with fierce, domineering eyes and a curved hawk-bill
of a nose looked sav­agely at the pair who sat by the stove.

Ettie
had jumped to her feet full of confusion and alarm. "I'm glad to
see you, Mr. Baldwin," said she. "You're earlier than I had
thought. Come and sit down."

Baldwin
stood with his hands on his hips look­ing at McMurdo. "Who
is this?" he asked curtly.

"It's
a friend of mine, Mr. Baldwin, a new boarder here. Mr. McMurdo, may I
introduce you to Mr. Baldwin?"

The
young men nodded in surly fashion to each other.

"Maybe
Miss Ettie has told you how it is with us?" said Baldwin.

"I
didn't understand that there was any rela­tion between you."

"Didn't
you? Well, you can understand it now. You can take it from me that
this young lady is mine, and you'll find it a very fine evening for a
walk."

"Thank
you, I am in no humor for a walk."

"Aren't
you?" The man's savage eyes were blazing with anger. "Maybe
you are in a humor for a fight, Mr. Boarder!"

"That
I am!" cried McMurdo, springing to his feet. "You never
said a more welcome word."

"Oh,
it's Jack, is it?" said Baldwin with an oath. "You've come
to that already, have you?"

"Oh,
Ted, be reasonable — be kind! For my sake, Ted, if ever you loved
me, be big-hearted and forgiving!"

"I
think, Ettie, that if you were to leave us alone we could get this
thing settled," said, Mc­Murdo quietly. "Or maybe, Mr.
Baldwin, you will take a turn down the street with me. It's a fine
evening, and there's some open ground be­yond the next block."

"I'll
get even with you without needing to dirty my hands," said his
enemy. "You'll wish you had never set foot in this house before
I am through with you!"

"No
time like the present," cried McMurdo.

"I'll
choose my own time, Mister. You can leave the time to me. See here!"
he suddenly rolled up his sleeve and showed upon his forearm a
peculiar sign which appeared to have been branded there. It was a
circle with a triangle within it. "D'you know what that means?"

"I
neither know nor care!"

"Well,
you will know, I'll promise you that. You won't be much older,
either. Perhaps Miss Ettie can tell you something about it. As to
you, Ettie, you'll come back to me on your knees, — d'ye hear,
Girl, on your knees? — and then I'll tell you what your punishment
may be. You've sowed — and by the Lord, I'll see that you reap!"
He glanced at them both in fury. Then he turned upon his heel, and an
instant later the outer door had banged behind him.

For
a few moments McMurdo and the girl stood in silence. Then she threw
her arms around him.

"Oh,
Jack, how brave you were! But it is no use, you must fly! Tonight —
Jack — tonight! It's your only hope. He will have your life. I read
it in his horrible eyes. What chance have you against a dozen of
them, with Boss McGinty and all the power of the lodge behind them?"

McMurdo
disengaged her hands, kissed her, and gently pushed her back into a
chair. "There, acushla, there! Don't be disturbed or fear for
me. I'm a Freeman myself. I'm after telling your father about it.
Maybe I am no better than the others; so don't make a saint of me.
Perhaps you hate me too, now that I've told you as much?"

"Hate
you, Jack? While life lasts I could never do that! I've heard that
there is no harm in being a Freeman anywhere but here; so why should
I think the worse of you for that? But if you are a Freeman, Jack,
why should you not go down and make a friend of Boss McGinty? Oh,
hurry, Jack, hurry! Get your word in first, or the hounds will be on
your trail."

"I
was thinking the same thing," said McMurdo. "I'll go right
now and fix it. You can tell your father that I'll sleep here tonight
and find some other quarters in the morning."

The
bar of McGinty's saloon was crowded as usual; for it was the favorite
loafing place of all the rougher elements of the town. The man was
popular; for he had a rough, jovial disposi­tion which formed a
mask, covering a great deal which lay behind it. But apart from this
popu­larity, the fear in which he was held throughout the
township, and indeed down the whole thirty miles of the valley and
past the mountains on each side of it, was enough in itself to fill
his bar; for none could afford to neglect his good will.

Besides
those secret powers which it was uni­versally believed that he
exercised in so pitiless a fashion, he was a high public official, a
munici­pal councilor, and a commissioner of roads, elected to the
office through the votes of the ruf­fians who in turn expected to
receive favors at his hands. Assessments and taxes were enor­mous;
the public works were notoriously neg­lected, the accounts were
slurred over by bribed auditors, and the decent citizen was
terrorized into paying public blackmail, and holding his tongue lest
some worse thing befall him.

Thus
it was that, year by year, Boss McGinty's diamond pins became more
obtrusive, his gold chains more weighty across a more gorgeous vest,
and his saloon stretched farther and farther, until it threatened to
absorb one whole side of the Mar­ket Square.

McMurdo
pushed open the swinging door of the saloon and made his way amid the
crowd of men within, through an atmosphere blurred with tobacco smoke
and heavy with the smell of spirits. The place was brilliantly
lighted, and the huge, heavily gilt mirrors upon every wall reflected
and multiplied the garish illumination. There were several bartenders
in their shirt sleeves, hard at work mixing drinks for the loungers
who fringed the broad, brass-trimmed counter.

At
the far end, with his body resting upon the bar and a cigar stuck at
an acute angle from the corner of his mouth, stood a tall, strong,
heavily built man who could be none other than the fam­ous
McGinty himself. He was a black-maned giant, bearded to the
cheekbones, and with a shock Of raven hair which fell to his collar.
His complexion was as swarthy as that of an Italian, and his eyes
were of a strange dead black, which, combined with a slight squint,
gave them a particu­larly sinister appearance.

All
else in the man — his noble proportions, his fine features, and his
frank bearing — fitted in with that jovial, man-to-man manner which
he af­fected. Here, one would say, is a bluff, honest fellow,
whose heart would be sound however rude his outspoken words might
seem. It was only when those dead, dark eyes, deep and remorse­less,
were turned upon a man that he shrank with­in himself, feeling
that he was face to face with an infinite possibility of latent evil,
with a strength and courage and cunning behind it which made it a
thousand times more deadly.

Having
had a good look at his man, McMurdo elbowed his way forward with his
usual careless audacity, and pushed himself through the little group
of courtiers who were fawning upon the powerful Boss, laughing
uproariously at the smallest of his jokes. The young stranger's bold
gray eyes looked back fearlessly through their glasses at the deadly
black ones which turned sharply upon him.

"Well,
young man. I can't call your face to mind."

"I'm
new here Mr. McGinty."

"You
are not so new that you can't give a gen­tleman his proper
title."

"He's
Councilor McGinty, young man," said a voice from the group.

"I'm
sorry, Councilor. I'm strange to the ways of the place. But I was
advised to see you."

"Well,
you see me. This is all there is. What d'you think of me?"

"Well,
it's early days. If your heart is as big as your body, and your soul
as fine as your face, then I'd ask for nothing better," said
McMurdo.

"By
Gar! you've got an Irish tongue in your head anyhow," cried the
saloonkeeper, not quite certain whether to humor this audacious
visitor or to stand upon his dignity. "So you are good enough to
pass my appearance?"

"Sure,"
said McMurdo.

"And
you were told to see me?"

"I
was."

"And
who told you?"

"Brother
Scanlan of Lodge 341, Vermissa. I drink your health, Councilor, and
to our better acquaintance." He raised a glass with which he had
been served to his lips and elevated his little finger as he drank
it.

McGinty,
who had been watching him nar­rowly, raised his thick black
eyebrows. "Oh, it's like that, is it?" said he. "I'll
have to look a bit closer into this, Mister — "

"McMurdo."

"A
bit closer, Mr. McMurdo; for we don't take folk on trust in these
parts, nor believe all we're told neither. Come in here for a moment,
behind the bar."

There
was a small room there, lined with bar­rels. McGinty carefully
dosed the door, and then seated himself on one of them, biting
thoughtfully on his cigar and surveying his com­panion with those
disquieting eyes. For a couple of minutes he sat in complete silence.
McMurdo bore the inspection cheerfully, one hand in his coat pocket,
the other twisting his brown mus­tache. Suddenly McGinty stooped
and produced a wicked-looking revolver.

"See
here, my joker," said he, "if I thought you were playing
any game on us, it would be short work for you."

"This
is a strange welcome," McMurdo answered with some dignity, "for
the Bodymaster of a lodge of Freemen to give to a stranger brother."

"Aye,
but it's just that same that you have to prove," said McGinty,
"and God help you if you fail! Where were you made?"

"Lodge
29, Chicago."

"When?"

"June
24, 1872."

"What
Bodymaster?"

"James
H. Scott."

"Who
is your district ruler?"

"Bartholomew
Wilson."

"Hum!
You seem glib enough in your tests. What are you doing here?"

"Working,
the same as you — but a poorer job."

"You
have your back answer quick enough."

"Yes,
I was always quick of speech."

"Are
you quick of action?"

"I
have had that name among those that knew me best."

"Well,
we may try you sooner than you think. Have you heard anything of the
lodge in these parts?"

"I've
heard that it takes a man to be a brother."

"True
for you, Mr. McMurdo. Why did you leave Chicago?"

"I'm
damned if I tell you that!"

McGinty
opened his eyes. He was not used to being answered in such fashion,
and it amused him. "Why won't you tell me?"

"Because
no brother may tell another a lie."

"Then
the truth is too bad to tell?"

"You
can put it that way if you like."

"See
here, Mister, you can't expect me, as Bodymaster, to pass into the
lodge a man for whose past he can't answer."

McMurdo
looked puzzled. Then he took a worn newspaper cutting from an inner
pocket.

"You
are right, Councilor," said McMurdo meekly. "I should
apologize. I spoke without thought. Well, I know that I am safe in
your hands. Look at that clipping."

McGinty
glanced his eyes over the account of the shooting of one Jonas Pinto,
in the Lake Saloon, Market street, Chicago, in the New Year week of
1874.

"Your
work?" he asked, as he handed back the paper.

McMurdo
nodded.

"Why
did you shoot him?"

"I
was helping Uncle Sam to make dollars. Maybe mine were not as good
gold as his, but they looked as well and were cheaper to make. This
man Pinto helped me to shove the queer — "

"To
do what?"

"Well,
it means to pass the dollars out into circulation. Then he said he
would split. Maybe he did split. I didn't wait to see. I just killed
him and lighted out for the coal country."

"Why
the coal country?"

"'Cause
I'd read in the papers that they weren't too particular in those
parts."

McGinty
laughed. "You were first a coiner and then a murderer, and you
came to these parts because you thought you'd be welcome."

"That's
about the size of it," McMurdo answered.

"Well,
I guess you'll go far. Say, can you make those dollars yet?"

McMurdo
took half a dozen from his pocket.

"Those
never passed the Philadelphia mint," said he.

"You
don't say!" McGinty held them to the light in his enormous hand,
which was hairy as a gorilla's. "I can see no difference. Gar!
you'll be a mighty useful brother, I'm thinking! We can do with a bad
man or two among us, Friend McMurdo: for there are times when we have
to take our own part. We'd soon be against the wall if we didn't
shove back at those that were pushing us."

"Well,
I guess I'll do my share of shoving with the rest of the boys."

"You
seem to have a good nerve. You didn't squirm when I shoved this gun
at you."

"It
was not me that was in danger."

"Who
then?"

"It
was you, Councilor." McMurdo drew a cocked pistol from the side
pocket of his pea-jacket. "I was covering you all the time. I
guess my shot would have been as quick as yours."

"By
Gar!” McGinty flushed an angry red and then burst into a roar of
laughter. "Say, we've had no such holy terror come to hand this
many a year. I reckon the lodge will learn to be proud of you. . . .
Well, what the hell do you want? And can't I speak alone with a
gentle­man for five minutes but you must butt in on us?"

The
bartender stood abashed. "I'm sorry, Councilor, but it's Ted
Baldwin. He says he must see you this very minute."

The
message was unnecessary; for the set, cruel face of the man himself
was looking over the servant's shoulder. He pushed the bartender out
and closed the door on him.

"So,"
said he with a furious glance at Mc­Murdo, "you got here
first, did you? I've a word to say to you, Councilor, about this
man."

"Then
say it here and now before my face," cried McMurdo.

"I'll
say it at my own time, in my own way."

"Tut!
Tut!" said McGinty, getting off his barrel. "This will
never do. We have a new brother here, Baldwin, and it's not for us to
greet him in such fashion. Hold out your hand, Man, and make it up!"

"Never!"
cried Baldwin in a fury.

"I've
offered to fight him if he thinks I have wronged him," said
McMurdo. "I'll fight him with fists, or, if that won't satisfy
him, I'll fight him any other way he chooses. Now, I'll leave it to
you, Councilor, to judge between us as a Bodymaster should."

"What
is it, then?"

"A
young lady. She's free to choose for her­self."

"Is
she?" cried Baldwin.

"As
between two brothers of the lodge I should say that she was,"
said the Boss.

"Oh,
that's your ruling, is it?"

"Yes,
it is, Ted Baldwin," said McGinty, with a wicked stare. "Is
it you that would dispute it?"

"You
would throw over one that has stood by you this five years in favor
of a man that you never saw before in your life? You're not
Body­master for life, Jack McGinty, and by God! when next it
comes to a vote — "

The
Councilor sprang at him like a tiger. His hand closed round the
other's neck, and he hurled him back across one of the barrels. In
his mad fury he would have squeezed the life out of him if McMurdo
had not interfered.

"Easy,
Councilor! For Heaven's sake, go easy!" he cried, as he dragged
him back.

McGinty
released his hold, and Baldwin, cowed and shaken, gasping for breath,
and shiv­ering in every limb, as one who has looked over the very
edge of death, sat up on the barrel over which he had been hurled.

"You've
been asking for it this many a day, Ted Baldwin — now you've got
it!" cried Mc­Ginty, his huge chest rising and falling.
"Maybe you think if I was voted down from Bodymaster you would
find yourself in my shoes. It's for the lodge to say that. But so
long as I am the chief I'll have no man lift his voice against me, or
my rulings."

"I
have nothing against you," mumbled Bald­win, feeling his
throat.

"Well,
then," cried the other, relapsing in a moment into a bluff
joviality, "we are all good friends again and there's an end of
the matter."

He
took a bottle of champagne down from the shelf and twisted out the
cork.

"See
now," he continued, as he filled three high glasses. "Let
us drink the quarreling toast of the lodge. After that, as you know,
there can be no bad blood between us. Now, then, the left hand on the
apple of my throat. I say to you, Ted Baldwin, what is the offense,
Sir?"

"The
clouds are heavy," answered Baldwin.

"But
they will forever brighten."

"And
this I swear!"

The
men drank their glasses, and the same ceremony was performed between
Baldwin and McMurdo.

"There!"
cried McGinty, rubbing his hands. "That's the end of the black
blood. You come under lodge discipline if it goes further, and that's
a heavy hand in these parts, as Brother Baldwin knows — and as you
will damn soon find out, Brother McMurdo, if you ask for trouble!"

"Faith,
I'd be slow to do that," said McMurdo. He held out his hand to
Baldwin. "I'm quick to quarrel and quick to forgive. It's my hot
Irish blood, they tell me. But it's over for me, and I bear no
grudge."

Baldwin
had to take the proffered hand; for the baleful eye of the terrible
Boss was upon him. But his sullen face showed how little the words of
the other had moved him.

McGinty
clapped them both on the shoulders.

"Tut!
These girls! These girls!" he cried. "To think that the
same petticoats should come be­tween two of my boys! It's the
devil's own luck! Well, it's the colleen inside of them that must
settle the question; for it's outside the juris­diction of a
Bodymaster — and the Lord be praised for that! We have enough on
us, with­out the women as well. You'll have to be affili­ated
to Lodge 341, Brother McMurdo. We have our own ways and methods,
different from Chi­cago. Saturday night is our meeting, and if
you come then, we'll make you free forever of the Vermissa Valley."